


For You Blue

by Winstonian1



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 00:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15036173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winstonian1/pseuds/Winstonian1
Summary: From The Beatle Who Vanished, Jim Berkenstadt:“DJ Bob Francis observed a homesick George trying desperately to reach his girlfriend, Pattie Boyd, on the phone with the time difference problems.”From …” George Harrison Behind the Locked Door, Graeme Thomson:“The tour of Hong Kong, Australia and New Zealand in June 1964… he hadn’t wanted to go at all, partly because it was too far, partly because he’d had a bust up with Boyd beforehand, and partly because Starr was ill…”From George Harrison Behind the Locked Door, Graeme Thomson:“A promoter on the Australian tour, Kevin Ritchie, recalled Harrison ‘wandering around the hotel feeling desperately homesick’ after he and Boyd had fought just before he left the country.”





	1. Chapter 1

Denmark 4/6/64 

All through the trail to the airport. All through the waving from the plane steps. All through the flight. All through the next lot of waving from the plane steps. All through the press conference. All through the drive to the theatre. He looked terrified. Scared out of his wits. George tried not to be pleased.  
Not fair. None of this was Jimmie’s fault. He didn’t ask to be a Beatle.  
George tried to be reasonable, inside his own head. He was perched on the edge of a chair, ear close to his guitar, tuning tuning tuning. It was probably fine by now. John’s was probably fine too. Paul’s too, probably. But compulsively tuning every instrument in sight was the only way George could cope right now, right at this minute.  
He didn’t ask to oust Ringo.  
George looked up at the others; well, at Jimmie really. What was he doing now? Hogging the mirror. Checking his suit, which didn’t fit properly, obviously, since it wasn’t his. Checking his hair. That was presumably his. Eyes darting to and fro; checking the other Beatles, checking what they were doing, how they looked and how they seemed. And listening, listening, listening to the backchat, the half formed sentences, the grunts, which the three used for conversation when there was no need for words because they knew each other so well and knew this situation so well; waiting to go on stage to be the Beatles.  
And, probably most terrifying of all in all this terrifying day (not Jimmie’s fault, stop being pleased), hearing what was going on outside, out there, in the theatre. The final support act suffering the first of many endurance tests of this long tour, their no doubt carefully rehearsed and no doubt excellent performance utterly drowned by “We want the Beatles”, throughout every soul destroying moment. The sound. The noise. The endless noise of devotion and hysteria.  
George watched as Jimmie swallowed hard. Lord, the man was terrified.  
“How long, Nell?”  
Neil Aspinall checked his watch and frowned at the small mental calculation required to work out the time lapse. “About ten minutes.”  
Paul nodded, and went back to his newspaper. George watched Jimmie’s face momentarily freeze, and then went back to his tuning. It wasn’t Jimmie’s fault he’d been asked to be a Beatle. It wasn’t Jimmie’s fault that the pretty nasty confrontation between George and the others; namely John, Paul and mainly Brian, the boss when it counted, had been fought and lost by Ringo’s loyal friend. He’d tried, but he’d been shouted down. And it wasn’t Jimmie’s fault that that fight had been followed on the same day by a row with Pattie that he didn’t understand but which made his heart thud and his gorge rise and the sweat break out on his hands with the fear that he was losing her, actually losing her, but that was stupid wasn’t it? It was just a row. They’d had lots of rows. Probably. He couldn’t actually remember any, but they must have done, surely?  
“Nell, I’ll need to make a call after the show.”  
The roadie looked at him, and did a small shrug and a shake of the head. “George, there won’t be time. You know we’re staying here til the next show. Can’t phone from here. And, I don’t know about the hotel…”  
George sighed very softly, and studied his guitar carefully. When he was certain that he’d absorbed that news satisfactorily, he looked back up and gave a small smile. “S’fine,” he said.  
Neil nodded, and then crossed the room and spoke briefly and softly to Mal, who also nodded and strode across to the door and opened. It. The cacophony from outside swelled and then abruptly muted again as the door closed behind him. Jimmie looked across to where Mal had disappeared. The others didn’t bother; they knew what that was about. Finding out when they were on. How long.  
“Mal returned. “Now,” he said.  
The three Beatles cut glances with each other, glances which spoke a world to each other without a syllable needing to be uttered. It wasn’t nerves. It was a wordless awareness that they were about to step out once more into that uniqueness which countless journalists had attempted to describe but which only four people had experienced, and they had long since stopped trying to find words for the indescribable. George stood, slung his guitar strap around his neck, the others were doing the same, Jimmie had nothing to hold or carry to use as his barrier, what a shame, thought George cattily.  
Not Jimmie’s fault that George had had rows with the most important people in his life.  
The door opened again, but the stage manager saw that his work was done and backed thankfully away. John strode out, followed by Paul. George and Jimmie met at the door. And George made a decision, and smiled at the interloper. “Don’t worry,” he said, with a small grin. “You’ll be fine.” Jimmie nodded, and ventured a smile of his own.  
The four, flanked by faithful Neil and Mal, walked together through the dreary back stage corridors, confidently, briskly, and the noise grew and then they were in the wings, and the compere was enthusiastically saying something in a weird language, presumably Danish, and the noise almost crescendoed. Almost. Already speech was impossible and the noise was physical, buffeting, all-encompassing. Paul turned to Jimmie and gave the McCartney thumbs up. Another stage manager was standing, ostensibly to ensure that the musicians stepped on stage in a timely manner, but in actuality simply motionless, transfixed – frightened?  
They heard the words, just. “The Beatles!!!” Jimmie personified rabbit in headlights and had to be pushed onstage by John. The four stepped out, and the sound took over completely. It had seemed loud before. They swam through it, as though wading through water, and George was aware of Jimmie climbing onto his rostrum as he himself plugged his guitar into his amp and tested it, back to the audience, no interaction at all with that body of love and noise.  
He couldn’t have lost her. That was silly.  
“Hello everyone,” said Paul. “Thank you for coming.”  
‘Well she was just seventeen, you know what I mean…’

 

 

<


	2. Netherlands 5/6/64

“Have you finished with the phone?”  
“I haven’t started yet.”  
“Fucks sake…” Paul turned and moved away, the angry words completely belied by his contented and obviously inebriated expression. George turned back to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver.  
“Do I have to get reception?”  
“No!” Neil laughed. “You just dial out. Brian makes sure of it.”  
“Why?” Paul asked from where he had sprawled himself across an armchair, legs dangling over its arm.  
“He was worried people could be paid to listen in.”  
George’s eyes met Paul’s, and they exchanged a wide-eyed glance, wordlessly agreeing that neither had any wish to have the world’s press listening into their private phone calls. “Right,” George muttered, and turned back to the phone, hunched, back to the room. He took a deep breath and started to dial the number.  
And stopped. And swallowed. And moistened his lips. And closed his eyes for a moment, and opened them again. And began to dial the number again, and this time got to the end.  
It rang.  
It was answered. “Hello?”  
“Hello?”  
“Who…? Jenny?”’  
“George?”  
“Yes. George.” He was trying for breezy and chatty. He wasn’t quite making it. “How are you, Jenny?” He didn’t care how Jenny was.  
“I’m fine, George. And you?”  
This was beyond annoying.  
“Yeah, I’m fine too.”  
“Is the tour going well?”  
Oh for god’s sake. “Yeah, so far. We’re all still alive, you know.”  
“How’s Jimmie…?”  
“Ah, Jenny, I haven’t… ah. I haven’t got a lot of time, we have to… Ah, can I speak to Pattie?”  
“Oh, I’m sorry George. She isn’t here.”  
He waited. For control, for equanimity. “Oh? Ah, what’s… do you know where she is?” Stupid question. Pattie’s sister was in Pattie’s flat, and Pattie wasn’t. Of course she’d know where she is.  
“She’s at the theatre. Something called Twang. I didn’t want to go.”  
Who’s she with, screamed his mind, but he didn’t say it. Not after the row. The Row. It was capitalised in his mind by now.   
“She’s with Cyn.”  
The boulder which had been crushing his neck and shoulders and head rolled away. “Oh, ok. Great.” What nonsense was he saying? “Do you know what time she’s coming back, so I can phone?”  
“Oh, no, she’s not coming straight back. We’re all going on to dinner afterwards.”  
All? Oh, ok,” he said. Again.   
“I’ll tell her you phoned. Can you try again tomorrow? I don’t think she’s got much on tomorrow.”  
Fucking good of her. Not much on tomorrow. Might be able to spare the time. Just a few minutes…  
“Yeah, thank you. I’ll try… have a good time tonight.”  
“Thank you! And you. Is there a party tonight?”  
A party. Was there a party? Wasn’t there always a party? “I don’t know, probably. I think I’ll just go to bed, really.” What the hell was he saying?  
“Ok. Take care George. And I’ll tell her you called.”  
“Yeah, thanks. Bye Jenny.”  
“Bye.”  
Click.  
“George?”  
He turned. Paul was still slung across the armchair, drink still in hand, looking at him rather more perceptively than he would have liked. “Yeah?”  
“You ok?”  
George gazed back at him, and then nodded, lips pursed, slight shrug. With that volume of body language, no reply was really required. “You want the phone?”  
“Yup. Thanks.” Paul heaved himself laboriously from the depth of the chair. “John’s going out. Says do you want to go too?”  
“He’s what??”  
Paul chuckled as he passed George and reached for the phone. “Says there’s a knocking shop up the road, says it’d be a laugh. Says you should go.”  
“Why me?”  
“Cos yer a fucking wet week, son, and yer need cheering up.” John strolled past his friend, reaching out and encircling his shoulders with an almost threatening gesture. “Come on. You’ve done yer duty call. Now come and have a laugh.” John peered into George’s face, possibly even more perceptively than Paul had been. Why did George feel there wasn’t an ounce of privacy to be had.  
Perhaps because there wasn’t.  
“You’re daft,” said George. “You won’t get ten feet before they get you.”  
John shook his head. “Nah, it’s all worked out. Come on. Come and grab some of what you fancy!”  
George shook his head. “I…”  
“Phone call not go well?”  
Their eyes met, and George felt even more exposed. He held John’s gaze, and his face hardened. “You could say that.”  
“Well then, why not?”  
George shook his head again. “Too much effort. Look.” He gestured with his head to the rear of the main suite, where a number of girls had already materialised. “Why put yourself through all that when it’s all here?”  
“Yeah, but…”  
“Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine here.” George managed to emphasise the word fine, and as he did so, John was fascinated to see his friend’s face change, right in front of him. The hardness and the sadness, evident for his friends to see, melted away, as George Harrison morphed, deliberately and calculatedly, into that cheeky, gauche, naïve boy with the lopsided grin who had stared out of so many posters and television screens. “I’ll be fine here,” he repeated, and turned away and strolled towards the group of girls at the back of the room. He homed in on a pair of sisters. Well, amended, John, there was nothing to say they were sisters just because they were both black, but they looked like they came as a matching set. John watched in unwilling admiration, as his cheeky young buddy casually put an arm around the shoulders of one of the girls and, head on one side as he poured all his attention onto the other one, managed without apparently trying to steer them both into the nearby bedroom, and shut the door behind them.  
“Fuck me.” John stood, astounded for a moment in the centre of the room, before remembering his own mission. “So that’s how the bugger does it.”  
He swung away, and saw Jimmie Nicol also staring at the now closed door. “Watch and learn, son,” said John in passing, before sweeping out of the main door of the suite. Jimmie heard a chuckle behind him, and turned in time to see Paul, still trying to connect his own call but laughing, perhaps not unkindly, at the astonished and adrift substitute drummer.”


	3. Pattie’s flat, Ovington Mews 3/6/64

“Who you going with?”  
The question was normal, to be expected. It was the same question that had been asked before, in the same circumstances. This time, though, this time…She opened her mouth to answer, but the answer didn’t come.   
She didn’t want to answer. Why should she answer?  
The question had made her angry.  
“Well?”  
“Well what?”  
“You know what. I just asked you who you’re going with.”  
She shrugged. To her own astonishment, she found herself clamping down on her own anger. She turned away from him, glanced out of the window.  
“Pattie!”  
“Don’t shout at me!”  
“I’m not!”  
“You are!”  
“I just asked…”  
“I know what you just asked!”  
“Pattie, what the hell is wrong with you?”  
“Why shouldn’t I go out?”  
George stared at her in astonishment. There was a pause, he stared, his mouth open. “I never said you…”  
“You have to know everything! Where I’m going, who with, how long for. You always have to know!”  
He stood, he faced her. She saw his brown eyes narrow. “Where the fuck has this come from?” His voice was harsh.  
Pattie opened her mouth to answer, but again the answer didn’t come. She didn’t in truth know where it had come from. She only knew that it was there. She looked back at him, wordlessly.  
“I said, where…”  
“I know!”  
“Pattie!” The word was shouted, no doubt now. She jumped, just a little. “What the fuck is this? I only asked who you want to go out with and I get this shit…”  
“Oh poor you!” Her own words astonished her; only slightly less than they astonished the man standing in front of her, his eyes now flashing, his mouth tightened.   
“What the hell…?”  
They fell silent; he baffled, shocked, and she even more confused because she did not in truth understand it herself, she only knew that she was suddenly consumed with rage. He always needed to know. He always had to know…everything!   
“Pattie, what is it? I don’t get it, what…?”  
“I don’t ask you!”  
He stared at her again, a frown creasing his forehead. He shook his head slightly. “You don’t ask me what?”  
“Anything!”  
“Pattie! I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!!”  
If she weren’t suddenly so engulfed with an unaccountable fury she’d probably have felt sorry for him. It was no wonder he didn’t know what she was talking about. Neither did she.  
“Well?”  
“Don’t ‘well’ me!”  
George flung his head back, a deep hiss of irritation; he turned sharply away from her and walked a few steps before spinning back towards her, planting his feet on the carpet and, she saw, baring his teeth. “Pattie, will you just tell me what this is all about because I don’t fucking know and I can’t work it out. You’ve got something to say, just fucking say it!!”  
It was her turn to move away, face away, give herself a moment to try to sort out the welter of feelings which had suddenly sideswiped her at his most innocuous of questions. She walked over to the window and stared unseeingly at the street outside. She breathed deep and tried to find the words. Tried to find the courage to say them.  
That was it. She was afraid to say it. Afraid of what it might start.   
George remained silent. That was a blessing.  
“You go where you want.” Pattie was relieved that her voice was steady. She didn’t feel steady. “You do what you want. I don’t ask.”  
He waited a moment to see if there was going to be anything else. When that seemed to be it, he spoke again, his voice as calm as he could make it. “You know where I am. You know what I do.”  
She took a deep breath. “Oh yeah? I always know where you are? I always know what you do?” She paused again. “Do I always know who you’re with? Do I always know who you’re with? Do I…”  
“Pattie!!”   
She turned to face him. That word had sounded as though it had been torn from him, ripped from him.  
George carried on. “Pattie.” Quieter now. Pleading? “What…? Pattie, you know…” He stopped – now he couldn’t find the words, but had to carry on. “Is this…?” He still couldn’t sort it out. “Pattie, what is it? What is it? I only asked who you’re going out with…”  
“Yes! But, I never ask you!” He stood, stared, full lips slightly open, no words. She went on. “You can…” And now her voice started to wobble and she swallowed hard. “You can go all over the world and do whatever you want…”  
“Pattie…!”  
“Let me finish!!”   
He stopped, stalked across to the low table and snatched up a pack of cigarettes, grabbed one and lit it with a fierce snap of his lighter. He inhaled deeply, but gave her the space to continue. Again, she fought for control of her voice. “You have the whole world, and everyone in it – and you have to know who I’m going to one club with.”  
He stared at her in genuine astonishment. For a moment he couldn’t even speak. And then, “That’s what this is? Cos I asked who you’re going with?”  
“Yes!!” It was her turn to shout. Now they were facing each other, like boxers sparring in a ring. “You can do anything! And I can’t do anything!”  
“Yes you…”  
“Look at the other night. You phoned me at the Ad Lib!! You told me to go home, and you weren’t even here!!!”  
Silence. Silence, as they both remembered that phone call. “I…” he stopped.  
“I was dancing! I was just dancing! I like dancing!!” Pattie’s voice was shrill, loud. To her own ears she’d reached fishwife level, but she couldn’t stop. “George, you’re NEVER at home. You’re always in the studio or on tour. But you want me HERE!! All the time you want me here! On my own!”  
“No I…”  
“Yes you do. You do. I was only dancing!”  
“Who with??”  
She stopped and stared at him. “What?” she asked, at the end of a heavy pause.  
He glared at her. “Who with?”  
“Why do you ALWAYS…”  
“Are you serious??” It was George’s turn to shout. “Am I not supposed to care who you’re knocking around with..?”  
“I don’t…”  
“You can be such a tease, Pattie, I’ve seen you. Flirting with everyone…”  
“Flirting?” Undisguised scorn.  
“Yeah. Flirting!”  
“You’d know, wouldn’t you.”  
George felt that they were going round and round in dizzying circles. Yet again she’d said something to which he could only ask, “What does that mean?”  
“You. You can’t talk to a girl without flirting.”  
“I don’t…”  
“You do! All the time. Everyone. You don’t even know you’re doing it!”  
“I don’t…”  
“And I don’t ask you, George. I don’t ask you. I don’t keep on asking, who are you with? Where are you going? How many parties? How many girls? How…”  
In one movement, George Harrison spun away from her and stormed to the other side of the room. He stood, his back to her and both his hands were crushed against his eyes, fingers entangled in, almost ripping, his hair. It was the gesture of a child, covering his ears, hiding from a scene which was too difficult. It was a gesture which begged her to stop, stop. It was a gesture of complete desperation and he was fighting down a rising and sick-making panic. These were words which should not be spoken. This was territory not articulated. But she didn’t stop.  
“You’ve got all the freedom, George…”  
“Huh??” His head whipped round to stare at her incredulously. “Freedom? I’ve got all the freedom? For fuck’s sake, Pattie, I’m a fucking PRISONER!!”   
And now he shook with anger, with rage, and the force of it drove her backwards as he paced back towards her. “I’ve got freedom? Brian doesn’t give us any time off, any time! You know that, for God’s sake, you’ve complained about it often enough. ‘Oh George, I never see you,’” he mimicked her, in a cruel, high pitched voice, and then tears really did spring to her eyes. “No Pattie, I’ve got no fucking freedom but while I’m paraded round and round the world and put on display for everyone to poke and prod you moan cos I want to know who you’re going out playing with, while I’m smiling and posing and saying yes sir no sir…”  
“I never said it was all all right for you…”  
“Yes you did. You said I had all the freedom…”  
“Oh ok, that was wrong then. But just cos you’re ‘in prison’ doesn’t mean I have to be! Does it?”  
Another silence fell. Each stared at the other. Both knew that, after all the words and all the shouting, the point had been reached at last. At last. And perhaps for the first time.   
They let the silence ring. George broke it first.   
“With…” He stopped. His mouth was dry, it felt as if it was full of sand. He swallowed. “Pattie – with all the… chaos, all the madness…” He had to pause again. “I… I need to know you’re there. I need to.” He stood, they both stood, still as stone.  
“I am there, George. I’m always there. You just don’t trust me.” She looked into the brown eyes, now filled with pain. She pushed herself onwards. “I’ve never been unfaithful to you.”  
He shook his head sharply, and reached towards her, a futile gesture she refused to reciprocate. “You know that means nothing! You know that! For God’s sake Pattie, it’s just… you know…”  
“Oh, well that’s alright then!” The sarcasm dripped. “So when I ‘flirt’ with someone that doesn’t mean anything either!”  
“It does! It does with you! It isn’t anything like the same with you!”  
“Why not? Why shouldn’t I…”  
“I mean…. I mean, I know you. You’re not like that. You’re not… You don’t… I just mean, when you’re with someone you mean it!”  
She stared again, mentally blinking at this last remark. Finally, “Do you think I’ve been unfaithful to you, George?”   
George bit his lower lip, studied her face, drowned in her blue eyes. He shook his head once.  
“Good. Cos I haven’t. And now, I’m going out. And DON’T ask me who with. I’m going dancing. That’s all. Not shagging, dancing. And, if any men look at me, let them look. I’m not particularly looking at them.” She turned away, turned towards the door.  
“Pattie!!”  
She paused and waited.   
“You… Pattie, I’m tied up all today, I’m in the studio tonight, and we’re flying tomorrow. I won’t see you! Please…”  
“Bye, George. Don’t forget to lock up when you go, Mary’s away tonight. Call me when you get to the hotel.”  
“Pattie!!!”


	4. Sydney, Australia, 13/6/64

Deafened.  
Soaked.  
Freezing cold.  
Utterly confused.  
“Which is mine?” he said, staring miserably at the doors which opened off the palatial main suite.  
No-one answered, so he just walked to the door nearest him and pushed it open. It looked fine. It looked like every other posh hotel room they’d been given on this tour. “This one,” he said, to no-one in particular.  
He looked around for his case.  
“Hey, Mal!. Where’s me case?”  
A trickle of rainwater made its way down the back of his neck. He wriggled to try and clear it, and ran his fingers through his wet hair.  
“Mal?”  
“It’s not here yet.” Mal poked his head around the door.  
“Not…? Well where is it then?”  
“They’re coming. Just held up.”  
George stared at the now empty doorway in disbelief. No Bag. No clothes. He stomped to his door and looked out. “John!”  
“What?”  
“Have you got your case?”  
“Nope.” John shook his equally wet head. “They’re held up somewhere.”  
If John was in any way taken aback by George’s hiss of irritation and disdainful sneer, he made no sign of it but just continued on his way into another of the bedrooms. George turned on his heel and stamped back into the room he’d claimed as his.  
Soaked. Cold. Exhausted.  
Anxious.  
Deeply unhappy.  
“George,” called Mal.  
“I’m having a shower.”  
“But…”  
“A hot shower.”  
Further comments or objections went unheard, as George Harrison shut himself in his bathroom and turned on the shower. He set it to its hottest; and then had to turn it down to something more moderate before pulling off his clothes and leaving them in a damp heap on the bathroom floor. He stepped under the shower and stood for long blissful moments, warming through to his bones.  
He tried to ignore the hammering on the bathroom door; but found he couldn’t ignore the Beatle who opened the shower door. “Oi! What the fuck…?”  
“George, they’ve said they want us on the balcony.”  
“When? Gerraway anyway, I’m…”  
“Now! We have to go out now! There’s too many fans out there, they’ve said we have to do something. So we have to go on the balcony and wave.” Paul was doing his best to sound apologetic and firm at the same time. Paul was the only one who they thought could get away with it, the mood George had been in recently. Send Paul in, he might not get hit.  
Where was Ringo when you needed him?  
“But…”  
“They’re all waiting. It won’t take long. Come…”  
“Fer fuck’s sake.” George turned off the water, and stepped out onto the shower mat and dripped. “Ok.” He pulled a towel from the nearby rack and rubbed his hair with it, walking towards the bathroom door.  
“George! You can’t go out like that, for god’s sake.”  
Without pausing, George shook the towel out and wrapped it around his waist. He strode out of the bathroom to meet the eyes of his friends. Some (Paul) looked incredulous. Some (John) looked amused. Some (Jimmie) looked beyond astonished. “Alright?”  
“You’d better get dressed quick,” said Paul.  
“Nah.”  
“George, you can’t go out like that!!” Neil managed to combine Paul’s incredulity with John’s amusement, but was ignored nevertheless.  
“Ok, let’s go and fucking wave, shall we.” And so saying, he opened the balcony door and stepped outside.  
They had become used to the constant oceanic susurration of the crowds outside their hotels, wherever they went. They seldom heard it when shut safely away in their suites, playing music, talking, smoking, drinking, sleeping. But this…  
As the three Beatles and the substitute emerged from the suite and stood on the balcony, above the sea of fans, the noise enveloped, surrounded, filled their bodies with vibration. Speech was impossible and pointless. Crowds they had seen, but this was beyond their experience. The four men simply stood, and heard, and felt. They looked at each other. Paul waved, the others followed suit. Paul, the showman, pretended to try to climb over the balcony; was it possible for the sound to increase?  
Australia. The other side of the world. The place you said you were digging down to when you were a little kid messing around in the garden or on the patches of waste ground left by the Luftwaffe’s ministrations. They were in Australia! And it looked as if the whole of Australia was here too, below their hotel balcony.  
The imposter was grinning and waving. As if the screams were for him.  
George tried not to resent him.


	5. Sydney, Australia. Same date

“Hey up, the bags’ve arrived.” Paul hoisted one over his shoulder, and swung the other in the direction of the man who was standing by the phone. He then opened his mouth to apologise for shouting over the call, but then saw that the phone was on its rest and the man’s hand was just resting on it. “Sorry,” he said, cheerfully. “Did I stop your call?”  
A shake of the head was all he got in reply.  
Paul paused, and looked thoughtfully at the man’s back. He considered for a moment, and then spoke again. “Did you get through?”  
Another shake of the head. The man was studying the opposite wall as though it were emblazoned with fascinating runes or ancient cave paintings, rather than an example of drearily strident beige and orange wallpaper. Paul nibbled at his lip, unseen, and thought some more.  
“Not spoken to her yet?”  
No reply. Paul took two or three carefully considered steps forward, and spoke.  
“Georgie. Are you crying?”  
George looked down at the floor.   
“One row, mate.” Paul’s voice was soft. “One row. That won’t be enough to smash it all up. Not you two.”  
The carpet was proving as engrossing as the wallpaper had previously been.  
“I’ve seen you two together. We all have. Well, we couldn’t help it, could we. You’re joined up, you two are. John said it, after your holiday on that boat. He said…” Paul paused, and decided to plough on. “He said he wished he had what you had.” He swallowed, and ventured another step forward. “You’re good. You are. It’ll be alright. Honestly.”  
He watched, as George rapidly brushed the back of his hand across his face before continuing his intensive study of the floor. The hand was still gripping the phone. The knuckles were white. Paul decided to take another chance. He rested his own hand on George’s shoulder, and then gave it an awkward pat. “Come on. Take your bag in your room. Grab a drink. We’re playing Monopoly next door. Hey, what’s the most beautiful blue-eyed chick in London compared with winning all the reds and Kings Cross?”  
A snort emerged from his old friend, which Paul identified as a strangled laugh. Paul’s eyes closed briefly with relief. He’d taken a couple of chances there; he’d more than once seen George hit out when upset and he knew it could easily have gone the other way.   
But it hadn’t. Paul turned away before he could make things worse; yet checked out of the corner of his eye as George picked up his travelling bag and lugged it into his room.  
Paul smiled to himself, and moved through to the next room to rejoin the boisterous and inebriated game of Monopoly playing out all over the floor.


	6. Pattie’s flat, Ovington Mews London, 14/6/64

“Not long now.”  
“What?”  
“Not long now. Til he’s home.”  
Nothing.  
“That’s good, isn’t it?”  
Pattie treated her sister to her glummest stare.  
“What’s up?  
Deep sigh.  
“Pattie! What…?”  
“We had a row.”  
Jenny waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. She tried again.  
“You had a row.”  
Nod.  
“Well, that’s not a big deal, is it?”  
Sad eyes.  
“You’ve had rows before, haven’t you.”  
“Well… not really.”  
“Really?? You’ve never had a row?”  
“Well, yes, we have. I just said, didn’t I.”  
“But before that.”  
“No.”  
“God.”  
“Why?”  
“Well, it’s a long time to be together without a row.”  
“Yes, well, I don’t know if we’re going to be together after it.”  
“God, Pattie, what was it about? Are you serious? “What…?”  
“Will you shut up!!”  
“No! Pattie! What’s happened? I thought you two were joined at the hip.”  
Blue eyes suddenly glistened. Jenny unfolded her legs, pushed herself up from the deeply padded sofa and hastened across the room to put an arm around her sister, who seemed to be fast disappearing into a thick cloud of despair. “Sweetheart, what is it? What happened?”  
“We had…”  
“I know you had a row! We’ve established that. I mean…”  
“I don’t know!!” The words emerged in a howl, of grief, of helplessness. “I don’t know! He asked me who I was going out with and I… I had a huge go at him and said he had no right to ask me, because I never ask him.”  
Well…” Jenny sounded confused. “You always know where he is.”  
“That’s what he said!” And now she was sobbing, and Jenny reached over to the low table and grabbed a handful of tissues to mop up the mess. “I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I said it. I just got…”  
Jenny left a respectful pause, before prompting. “You got…?” She had to wait a while before speech was possible.  
“I got angry. I don’t know why. I said he always wants to know where I am. And I got angry.”  
Jenny handed over some more tissues. “That’s fair enough.”  
Pattie blew her nose vigorously, and peered up at her sister. “Is it?”  
“Sweetheart, he’s never here. It’s not his fault, but he isn’t. Why should you have to account for every minute of your days, when he isn’t even here?”  
Pattie wiped her eyes, and smeared mascara disastrously across her face. Jenny managed not to smile. “Do you think?”  
“Of course I think. Why should you? Does he expect you to sit at home every day, just because you’re his girlfriend?” There was a pause. “Well, does he?”  
Pattie sniffed loudly, but seemed to have calmed down. “I don’t … I don’t think so. He…” She blew her nose again, and Jenny suppressed her impatience. “He wanted to know who I was going out with.”  
Jenny waited for more. “Was that it?” she demanded, at last.  
“I think so.”  
“He said you could go out but just wanted to know who with?”  
Her sister nodded, and blinked wetly.  
“And you got angry.”  
Another nod.  
“You dope.”  
“Am I?” A very small voice.  
“’’Course you are! I’d want to know if I was him. You’re such a flirt.”  
“That’s what he said!!”, and the tears flowed again. “I don’t mean to! I told him he was a flirt. “  
“Well he is. He never stops. He can’t help it. It’s in the genes or something. Both of you, you’re as bad as each other. But it doesn’t matter.”  
“No?”  
“No! God, you’re a right pair. You’ll be able to sort it all out when he phones.”  
The floodgates opened again. “But that’s just it! He always used to phone but now he doesn’t. He hasn’t tried to phone! He doesn’t want me any more after all the things I said!”  
Jenny reached for more tissues and ignored the ruined make-up. “’Course he does. He phoned the other day, didn’t he.”  
“WHAT???”  
Two sets of blue eyes locked, one set tear-filled and the other set simply filled with dawning horror. “Oh my God, did I forget to tell you?”  
“He phoned???” Jenny winced at the level of the sound.  
“Yes, the other day, he…”  
“What did he say?? Where was I?”  
“You were at Twang. He asked to speak to you.”  
“And what did you say?”  
“I…” And then the full awful context crunched into place as Jenny realised the full import of what she’d told him. She paused.  
“What did you say???” Screech.  
“He asked if he could phone when you got back and I said no because we were all going out after the theatre.” Jenny swallowed hard. “Oh God, I’d never have said that if I’d known, I’d have fixed a time for him to phone…”   
She trailed off, as she watched her sister sink her head into her hands.


	7. Adelaide, Australia, 15/6/64

There was a veritable hubbub in the suite. Two different radios were tuned to two different radio stations, their music discordant but ignored. A television blared from one end of the large room, which no-one seemed to be watching. The hum of voices moved over and under the music and the television announcer; chat, giggles, guffaws, serious lower tones of brief conversation. In the midst of the cacophony sat Ringo, on a sofa, drink in hand and a very large smile on his face. He beamed, at everyone and no-one, sipped and beamed again. Ringo was a happy man. He was generally happy by nature; he had never really known whether this was an asset or a liability, but, whatever, he knew himself to be a happy person. Yet, he did sometimes have his moments of down, of doubt, of anxiety, and he had been so assailed by all of those negative feelings over the last 12 days that he had wondered how he would survive them. He felt he had been through his own Gethsemane. His friends, his brothers, his world, had flown off without him, taking a substitute to drum in his place. He’d been replaced. He’d been discarded. Like their last drummer was.   
And they might never take him back.  
They might think Jimmie Nicol was better than he was.   
They might like him better.  
Ringo, outwardly cheerful, smiley, unshakable, lived through his own private hell for many days. If he expressed any of his doubts, to Mo, to Brian, he was poo pooed. Nonsense. Of course you’ll rejoin them, when you’re better. But, they might not have meant it. They might have just been saying it.  
Until Brian came, helped him pack his things, led him out to the waiting car, took him home to collect his things, and finally, blessedly, took him to the airport and boarded the plane with him to start the long long journey that was to take him back to his family and the heart of his life. Only then, really, did he truly believe.  
But, there was still the meeting with the others to anticipate, to worry about. After all those days, would they really, honestly, want him back? Would they be disappointed?  
Ringo sat, with his drink, and beamed, at everyone, at no-one. He revisited and relished his memory of the greetings from Paul, from John, and from George. The hugs, the play punches, the insults. The presents they’d thought to buy him. Their greeting had buoyed him up to be gracious, friendly, generous to Jimmie and he’d genuinely enjoyed the unique experience of a five Beatle press conference, a five Beatle wave to the colossal crowds.  
Yet, most of all, he relished his awareness, inexplicable but real nevertheless, of his reabsorption into the close-knit four, and the subtle, unspoken but equally real exclusion of Jimmie Nicol from the group. The man was no longer a Beatle.   
Ringo forever, Jimmie never.   
The ghost of Pete Best was exorcised.   
“’Ave another one.” George Harrison pushed himself to his feet and walked, his usual characteristic bounce somewhat suppressed by several scotch and cokes, but he made it back to the sofa with two unspilled drinks and handed one to Ringo before half sitting, half falling next to his friend. The two ginned at each other and clinked glasses.   
“Cheers.”  
“Cheers.”  
Each sat in contented inebriation.   
“Did you really think she’d dumped you?”  
George turned to look at his friend; he pursed his lips. He shrugged. He gave a small snort. “I think so,” he said at last.  
“Why?”  
George shrugged again. “I said, we had a row.”  
Ringo laughed. “Yer daft!” was his assessment, and George smiled, happily. He leaned back with his drink as he too revisted recent memories; of the phone call he was almost too anxious to make, of the stilted talking over each other until…  
George smiled, very happily.   
Until the apologies tumbling over each other, the laughing with relief, the assurances, more assurances, more apologies; the tears.   
The silly arguments; “I was horrible, it was my fault.”  
“No, I am away too much. It’s shit for you. It’s not your fault.”  
“I know you can’t help it.”  
“You can go out, you always can.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“I’m sorry.” George paused, and found himself saying, half to her and half just to himself, “I’m on the other side of the world. It’s too far. I hate this.”  
“I know,” she said. “Not long now.”  
“I’ll come to you straight from the airport.”  
“You’ll stink.”  
“I don’t care.”  
“I love you.”  
“I love you.” He sighed. “I have to go now.”  
“Ok. I love you!”  
“I love you.” He paused. “Bye.”  
“Bye.”  
Snorts. Giggles. George had spun round. John Lennon and Paul McCartney were standing together, leaning towards each other, arms folded. Identical grins on their faces, mischievous, merciless and knowing, only five feet from him. He stared at them, his eyes wide, mouth open in surprise. And they grinned even more.  
George looked down, smiled sheepishly, and then returned their stares. It was probably only fitting, he’d reflected to himself. These two had watched him all those years ago as he’d lost it. Maybe it was good that just now they’d both seen him find it. He tilted his head to one side, and shook his head.  
“Oh fuck off,” he’d said, and their smiles had answered him.  
“Yeah,” said George to Ringo, as they sat slumped happily together, drinks disappearing fast. “I was daft.”


	8. From ”. Wonderful Today, Pattie Boyd:

“I counted the days until George was due back… Once he got back very early in the morning and jumped into bed to wake me, smelling of BOAC and exotic long-haul flights”


End file.
